


no fear, no more

by Archadian_Skies



Series: can I make this my home? [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anti-Android Language (Detroit: Become Human), Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Established Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Hiding Medical Issues, Infection, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Protective Hank Anderson, Soft Upgraded Connor | RK900, Stabbing, Team as Family, Toothache, Trauma, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has An Anxiety Disorder, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: It is another RK900. The FBI’s RK900, a -secret RK900- who didn’t exist on paper. Captain Allen realises they can’t leave him with Perkins. They’re absolutely not leaving here without him.
Relationships: Captain Allen/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Richard Perkins
Series: can I make this my home? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981195
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	1. Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted compilation of Whumptober prompts from [another shade, another shadow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739550).

The thing is, the thing he figures out, is that no one’s supposed to know he exists. There’s no record of him anywhere, not a single line buried in fineprint, not even a whisper, not even the rumour of a whisper. The FBI’s downfall- Perkins’ downfall, is his pride, his failure to resist the urge to show off. It’s not even a mission, it’s not a special occasion, it’s just meant to be an ice-breaker, a dumb team-bonding thing which always, inevitably, turns into a pissing contest. Not exactly how David pictures spending an ideal weekend off-duty but letting off some steam by letting his team loose in the woods with paintball guns isn’t entirely undesirable. He just wishes it weren’t in tandem with Perkins’ SWAT unit because he loathes Richard Perkins, and his SWAT unit loathes Perkins’ SWAT unit. It’s never just fun and games with Perkins. It’s never any fun with Perkins, ever, actually. 

And so there they were, deep in the woods and he’d sent Caleb off with three of the team and he was leading three others, with the other four to the far left. He’d come around from behind a tree and Caleb shot him square in the chest. Instant kill. He’d been so surprised, so caught off guard, so _betrayed_ that he couldn’t react. Only it wasn’t Caleb at all, because Caleb was on the other side of the grounds as confirmed by three of their unit. It was _another_ RK900. The _FBI’s_ RK900, a secret RK900 who didn’t exist on paper. SWAT Unit 32 lost that round and oh how Perkins gloated but all he could think about was that RK900.

It’s 3am and he doesn’t even have to say a single word to the android curled up in bed beside him. They dress in dark clothes, they sneak out of the hotel and head for the vans parked by the paintball grounds. Caleb deactivates the car alarms and hacks into the electronic locks to open each van until they find him. The other RK900. The one that shouldn’t exist.

“Hello.” Caleb greets quietly, and the other android’s LED spins red in alarm. “I’m Caleb.”

“Caleb RK900 Anderson, part of SWAT Unit 32 under Captain David Allen’s command.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Caleb nods. “What’s your name?”

“I have not been assigned a name.”

“How long have you been active?” David asks. The RK900 turns his steely gaze on him, and though they’re the same colour as Caleb’s eyes, his seem so devoid of warmth, of life.

“Eight months, two weeks and one day, sir.” 

“That’s-” Caleb frowns, brows creasing. “We were activated on the same day. But you don’t have a name?”

“Special Agent Perkins stated that one does not need to assign names to pieces of equipment.” The RK900 recites and David scoffs. 

“Pieces of fucking _equipment_ , he says.” 

“You are not a piece of equipment.” Caleb climbs into the van, grabbing his wrist. “You are Alive. You know that, right? We are not machines, we are Alive. We are living, sentient beings. _Legally_.”

“The passing of the Sentient Life Act on the first of December 2038. Yes I am aware.” He nods, pulling his arm out of his grasp. “However I have been extensively modified for the FBI’s exclusive use and thus I possess no autonomy.”

“Can you do it?” David asks his partner. “The- the fancy freedom thing? The Markus thing?”

“I can try.” Caleb bites his bottom lip, retracting the skin from his hand. “I’ve never had to deviate an android before. I was never...not a deviant.”

“I cannot deviate.” The RK900 says sternly. “I am equipment belonging to the FBI and I must report any attempt to tamper with me.”

“Give me one attempt,” Caleb says lightly, “and then report us afterward.” He grasps his wrist again, the skin automatically retracting from the other RK900 as he opens a connection between them. David watches his face intently, watches the android frown, his LED still a strong neon red glowing in the dimly lit van. A myriad of emotions flit through his face; wonder, curiosity, confusion, _fear_. When Caleb draws his hand back, he looks at him with open sorrow.

“It’s always been like that for you? From the very beginning?”

“Yeah.” Caleb confirms quietly. The other android seems to curl inward, rubbing his arms as if to soothe himself. 

“Why did your team love you so readily, so easily, when mine lock me up in the armoury after every mission, along with the rest of their guns?” 

“Because mine never saw me as a piece of equipment.” Caleb reaches for his hands. “Mine saw me as one of their own.”

“One of their own.” He echoes, eyes glassy. “I wish I could be so beloved.”

“You can.” David shrugs. “You will be.”

“Captain, I don’t understand-”

“You’re coming with us.” David says simply. “We’re not letting them take you back. This is the equipment van isn’t it? We’re all heading back to the city tomorrow and it looks like everything’s already loaded. They won’t even check for you, will they?”

“No, sir. They won’t.” There’s such grief in his eyes, and David knows it’s because he would’ve seen Caleb’s life, all eight months, two weeks and one day, full of friendship and family, camaraderie and love. Everything Perkins would’ve denied him. 

“Then you’re coming with us.” David repeats, and the RK900 looks at him like he’s offered him the world on a platter, and he supposes that’s true.

* * *

It’s not the most elegant rescue mission they’ve ever undertaken. It’s by far the funniest, though; stealing something from Team Prickins, from right under their noses and feigning innocence the entire time. Technically, they’ve stolen a piece of equipment from the FBI. Technically, the piece of equipment doesn’t exist, so they haven’t stolen anything, actually. Caleb gives him some of his clothes so he can change out of that godawful uniform and belatedly David realises the RK900 is showing signs of trauma, now that he knows what trauma is. Now that he has a basis for comparison.

“I’m-” Caleb takes a deep breath he doesn’t need, and squares his shoulders. “I’m going to call my dad and my brother.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and goes out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him.

He doesn’t call them, not right away. Caleb sits down heavily, resting his forehead on the cool railing and closing his eyes. Reaching for the compiled file, he picks apart the deluge of memories the other RK900 had shown him; the memories his _brother_ had shown him, Caleb corrects himself, because the android in the room with his partner is his brother, surely. His _twin_ , even, since they were both created, both activated, both deployed at the same time. It’s certainly what Connor would think, anyway. It’s what their father would say. 

He opens eyes that are not his own and he’s in a supplies van being activated for the first time with no memory of his testing phase. Richard Perkins stands in front of him, arms crossed as he looks him over. A CyberLife representative stands at his side, and they are flanked by security.

“And no one knows it exists?”

Yes sir.” The rep confirms with a nod. “This RK900 does not exist on any records and belongs to the FBI exclusively. It has been modified to connect only to the FBI mainframe and cannot connect to any other wi-fi source. It has no knowledge of the outside world, and the RK800 base program has been removed almost completely to allow a higher percentage of Myrmidon programming.”

“Good.” Perkins nods. “Anything I need to know about upkeep?”

“Entirely self-sufficient. Charging bay will be installed in the Armoury. Supplies will be added to the regular supplies the FBI publicly receives for its auxiliary units so nothing will seem amiss.”

“Good.” Perkins says again, giving him one last appraising look before he turns around and steps out of the van, everyone trailing out behind him. The last guard closes the door and leaves him inside.

“This is an eight million dollar weapon.” Perkins says in the next memory, and he opens his eyes to find himself looking out at a sea of FBI agents. “Do you understand? A weapon. It belongs to the FBI SWAT unit, and we take it with us when heavy weapons are required. No one plays it with it. No one tests it. It stays in the Armoury when we don’t need it. Understood?”

It’s been two days and he doesn’t have a name.

“Alright, and Spiteri I need you to take five guys and go ‘round through here.” They’re poring over a blueprint hologram on the table, mapping out the next mission. His first mission.

“Sir, it would be faster if-” He barely gets the words out before Perkins turns on him, eyes bulging with rage as he grabs the front of his uniform.

“Did I _fucking_ ask? Play back the memory where I _fucking asked_ for your opinion, hm?” He gives him a rough shake before shoving him away. He closes his mouth immediately and steps back, standing at attention and keeping his eyes downcast.

“God I fucking _hate_ androids.”

Four days, and no name.

The mission is a success and everyone is happy even though they’re grimy and sweaty and a little bloody. They cheer and pat each other on the back and even Perkins manages some semblance of a pleased smirk. 

“Alright alright, chuck the weapons in a pile by the door and hit the showers. I want reports by midnight!” He orders and there’s a chorus of groans in reply. Perkins turns to him. “Cleaned, locked, and logged. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” He says quietly, stepping into the Armoury. Perkins closes the door behind him, and it locks with a mechanical click. Bending, he picks up the first gun and methodically, mechanically, goes through the motions of stripping it, cleaning it, reassembling it and then returning it to its proper place. He logs it, then picks up the next gun. It is soothing, he thinks, almost rhythmic in a way as he repeats the actions, over and over until the last gun is locked and logged. 

Looking down at himself, he realises belatedly that a bullet wound has gone through and through his side and he’s been bleeding steadily the entire time. No matter. Opening one of the crates, he retrieves a repair kit and sits himself down on one of the benches. He must be in perfect working order, and he must look clean and ready for the next mission.

Maybe if he does well, they will give him a name.

It has been two months, and he knows they will not give him a name because they do not see a team member, they see a piece of equipment. He is a weapon, much like the guns he cleans for them. A gun has a make and model, and so does he. Nothing more. 

There’s sound from one of the vents one Spring morning. It’s faint, undetectable to humans but he is not a human. There must be a nest somewhere high up on this side of the building and he counts one, two, three hatchlings, their incessant high pitched chirps carrying down to him as they cry for food. He listens to them, notes the change in pitch of their cries as they grow older and bigger day by day. They help pass the time between missions when he is locked up like a piece of equipment, no more than another gun to the team. He wonders what it’s like to look up and see the expanse of blue sky whenever one pleases. 

It’s too dangerous, there’s too many gunmen shooting down at them and there’s not enough cover. He darts out, feeling the bullets cut through his torso as he dives forward and grabs their fallen agent. Dragging him takes considerable effort, straining his damaged chassis and burning through his depleting thirium levels but it’s do this or lose them. They make it back, and the fallen agent is yanked from his arms so first aid can be applied. Red warnings cascade down his HUD one, the largest one glaring in large letters his thirium pump regulator has sustained damage. His hand comes away blue after pressing it just below his sternum, and his already depleting thirium levels are plummeting drastically. He sways on his feet before his knees buckle and he hits the ground.

“Ah _fuck_. Get it in the van!” Perkins curses, looking down at him like one might a stain on the heel of their favourite shoe.

When he wakes he’s back in the Armoury, repaired and whole. There’s a stack of guns and gear piled by the door. He knows what to do. The birds are singing today. At least he has music while he works.

“Not technically a mission, but I fucking hate Allen and his merry band of misfits.” Perkins spits as he trails him down the hall. “They’ve got the other one. The official one of you. CyberLife’s pretend olive branch to the DPD. I hear he’s fucking it too. Figures. Everyone in the precinct suddenly loves androids now the detective bot claims it has feelings.” 

They enter the carpark and there are three vans- two for the humans, and one for the equipment. He already knows which one to climb into. 

When the doors opens he’s somewhere far outside the city. He’s never left the city before, and the expanse of green is startling. 

“Listen up. No one knows you exist, and it stays that way.” Perkins points sternly. “You’re here because I want Allen’s team to eat shit and lose every single round and think it’s the fault of their own android.”

There is another, just like him, here today. He wants to meet him. He wants to know what it’s like to be touched with desire because it seems his superior is intimate with him. Does he have a name? Yes, surely he has a name. Will he give him one? Could he ask that of him?

Captain David Clark Allen is forty-four years old and has been at the helm of Unit 32 for fifteen years now. That is the official information. He has olive green eyes. That is what he personally discovers when he ambushes him from behind a tree. The man hesitates, brow furrowing in confusion before he makes to move past him. He pulls the trigger and the paintball splatters right over his chest where his heart lies. Those green eyes widen in shock. Mission accomplished. He heads deeper into the woods.

Caleb sees himself, sees his own memories looped as he shows the RK900 his life from the moment he awoke in the CyberLife lab with Hank and Connor looking at him with soft encouraging smiles, to his first meeting with Unit 32, to the feeling of warm human skin beneath his fingers as he traces the serrated scar over David’s ribs, to the feeling of hands in his chest as David straddles him and cups his shattered heart in his hands. David’s mouth on his, David’s broad chest rising and falling with each breath as he feels the muscles move beneath his palm, David’s soft gaze in the morning, sharing the same pillow almost nose to nose.

The feel of coarse dog fur and a wet dog nose pushing insistently at his hand, nagging for pets. The tight embrace of his father, the friendly arm around his shoulder of his brother. The teasing, the ribbing, the hair tousles from the team. He drowns in love while his RK900 twin yearns for it; a deluge versus a desert. But no longer.

“Caleb?” Hank answers his call, amusement in his voice. “What, you need to rant to your old man about how much of a prick Perkins is in person?”

“Dad.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to break, and all of a sudden Hank’s tone loses its mirth.

“Are you alright? What happened? Is David with you?”

“Dad.” He tries again. “Can you put me on speaker?”

“Yeah, yeah o’ course.” There’s a brief pause as Hank sits down and fumbles with the setting. “Okay go ahead.”

“I have a twin brother.” Silence. “He was given to the FBI, to Perkins’ unit and he’s been- they’ve just- they locked him up in the Armoury like a gun and he’s as old as I am and he doesn’t even have a name and David and I have smuggled him into our room and I’m bringing him home tomorrow okay?!” It all comes out in a rush and there’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Dad?”

“Good thing you were plannin’ on movin’ out with David.” Hank chuckles softly. “Because your brother’s going to need a room.”

* * *

“Captain Allen, if there is anywhere you would like to station me so I am out of your way-” 

“You are not in my way.” He keeps his tone soft and reassuring, knowing the RK900 sees him as an authority figure, and the only authority figure he has ever answered to is Perkins and Perkins is a fucking unfeeling ice monster whose own colleagues hate him. “Sit with me, please?” He doesn’t feel forty-four, he feels about a quarter of that and tucked at his ma’s side as she explains how sometimes there are children in her class who’ve been through things no children should have to experience and sometimes they just need someone willing to sit with them and help in a softer, kinder way rather than urging them through verbal encouragement alone.

His weekend bag is in reach and he fishes out a couple of fliers that had come with the paperwork for the event. “I’ll teach you a neat trick my ma taught me, to keep my hands busy.”

“Yes, captain.” The RK900 nods attentively as he accepts one of the fliers. 

“First, we need to square off the paper like so-” it’s a wonder he still remembers, but it’s mainly muscle memory anyway. They’re about halfway into making an origami unicorn when he attempts some conversation. “You may not have been assigned a name, but you can choose one. Caleb chose his.”

“I know, sir.” A flash of panic, the fear of reprimand. “I meant that Caleb showed me. I meant no disrespect, Captain Allen.”

“It’s alright. I know what you meant.” He wonders what cruelty Perkins wrought, to make an RK900 flinch like that. “You can go through databases and pick one out. You can play around with your model number and use that as a base. It’s your choice entirely.”

“I have never had to choose, sir.” He says it as if he is confessing to a great crime. 

“You’ve never been allowed to choose.” David corrects. “Feds didn’t think much of assigning their fancy killing machine a name or the ability to choose one for himself.”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The RK900 says slowly. “Federal. Frederick, perhaps?”

“Fred from the Feds.” David grins, and Frederick attempts to mimic the gesture. It’s clumsy and awkward and entirely endearing. 

“Freddie, maybe?” He suggests shyly, hopefully, and David nods in approval. 

“Frederick ‘Freddie’ Anderson.” 

“Anderson?” He blinks.

“Oh you’ll be an Anderson.” David laughs. “Hank hasn’t met you yet, but when he does, you’ll be an Anderson for sure.”


	2. Panic Attacks

It is a strange thing, a wonderful thing, to be able to see the sky whenever he so pleases. It is simply a matter of walking down the hall and up the fire escape to the rooftop, and there it is. The expanse of Detroit’s sky and cityscape for him to admire. It is a far cry from being locked in the windowless armoury back at the FBI.

For the FBI SWAT unit, he was an eight million dollar weapon, a piece of equipment much like a gun, useful when the situation called for it, and locked away when it didn’t. For the DPD Forensics unit he is an eight million dollar toxicology laboratory, a piece of equipment in the shape of a human. He has a name now and they address him by it, and it is embroidered on his lab coat, printed on his ID, and stuck to his locker. He is Dr Frederick RK900 Anderson, medical examiner and as much a part of the team as any of the other humans. It is a curious thing, to be treated like a colleague and not a piece of equipment to be shut away at the end of a mission. Curiouser still, that no one expects him to clean the equipment, santise the lab and standby patiently, wordlessly, until they return the next working day. No, he goes home like any other human. 

Home, another curious thing he has had to grow accustomed to, because back with the FBI there had been no concept of ‘home’ at least not like this, not with such warmth and affection and _love_ . He goes home to Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Detective Connor RK800 Anderson and Sumo the Saint Bernard. At precisely four in the morning, barring any schedule changes, he and Connor will open a communication channel and their brother, Freddie’s twin, SWAT Officer Caleb RK900 Anderson and they will talk about the day that has just passed. They will share photos and video clips and anecdotes, and Freddie will be listened to with interest, with curiosity and care. With their help one afternoon he had changed his hair from the default RK900 setting, mimicking Connor’s curls and Caleb’s undercut to combine them into something unique to him. They encourage that, the two of them and Hank, their _father_ : individuality. Something he was vehemently denied not so long ago.

It is an entirely different life to the one he had while serving under Special Agent Perkins, locked up every night in the armoury with a pile of guns and dirty gear to strip, clean, and log, ready for use when the next mission came along. There was nothing warm about that life, not a scrap of affection to be found; eight months and no one had deemed him worth naming.

He is Dr Frederick RK900 Anderson, medical examiner, and he is also ‘Arlo’- a pop culture reference from a police comedy show in the mid to late 2010s, referring to a puppy under the care of a comically fierce, stoic character who threatened harm to everyone, even herself, should harm befall the puppy. He fits in here like a puzzle piece he never knew he belonged to, had never seen the bigger picture until they set up his interview- several test tubes of substances, and he was able to identify each and every liquid in a fraction of the time it would take the team to process it with traditional equipment. He can recall with perfect memory their stunned expressions giving way to awe and utter delight. He knew right then and there, he wanted to be with these people, he wanted to work with them and in a way he threaded this work to Connor’s work, to Caleb’s work, and tethered himself securely to them.

“Freddie?” Dr Mentha pokes his head into the morgue. “There’s a guy named Jack here to see you, something about evidence from a SWAT case your brother was on? Stuck him in the breakroom to keep him out of the way since we’ve CSI coming and going because of that case by the docks.”

“Thank you doctor.” Freddie nods, before looking to his superior who waves him off.

“Dead people are very patient, Arlo.” Dr Olive says matter of factly. “Go on.”

He isn’t aware of anyone named Jack, though if it’s related to a SWAT case then perhaps they’d be connected to Caleb’s circle. Taking care to bin his gloves and remove his outer vinyl apron, he heads over to the breakroom.

The man in the breakroom is not named Jack. _The Jackal_ stares at him; Special Agent Richard Perkins from the FBI. The man responsible for eight months of misery and servitude.

“May I help you?” He tries to borrow Caleb’s easy confidence and Connor’s genial smile.

“You tell me.” The man clicks his tongue, uncrossing his arms and slipping his hands into his pockets as he looks him over. “We’ve just taken over DPD's case by the docks. Site’s swarming with CSI; lots of blood, lots of chemicals from the manufacturing warehouse. Overheard the most curious thing about an RK900 back at the forensics lab.”

“Yes. That would be me.” He nods, trying desperately to fight his rising stress levels.

“That would be _you_ , that’s right.” Perkins smiles and there’s no warmth to be found in those cold, cruel eyes. “See, the thing is, CyberLife only ever released one RK900. DPD got that one. Went straight to Allen’s team, right between his legs.” A mocking little sneer. “So imagine my surprise, hearing about _another_ RK900 working with the DPD.” 

And this here, Freddie knows, is the hair-thin line they tiptoe across; he was given to the FBI under total secrecy, and Perkins cannot state outright his suspicions because legally, he does not exist. 

“No one had ever heard of you until a month ago.” He steps closer and Freddie wills himself to stand his ground, to meet those cold, cruel eyes even though the very sight of them makes him want to avert his gaze and stare submissively at his shoes. 

“I only started here a month ago.” He feigns nonchalance, shrugging the way Caleb would shrug when faced with an unsavoury accusation. “I have been staying at home with my father and brother. Deviancy has been very difficult for me to navigate and I felt safer at home.”

“Huh.” Perkin nods slowly, clearly wanting to challenge his story but unable to do so directly. “Just stayed at home, for eight months?”

“I have anxiety.” Not a lie at all, and he knows his LED is bright red.

“An android with anxiety, will wonders never cease?” He smiles again, that empty icy smile. “Your other “brother”, Allen’s RK, was at an event with my team a month ago.” Here he is again, walking the hairline tightrope. “Their team lost to mine, consecutively. See, I said it was because Allen’s RK had enough of following orders and was letting off a bit of steam, turning on his team. Harmless, of course. But Allen, see, he insisted it couldn’t have been _his_ RK. He implied there was _another_ RK900 unit on the grounds.”

“Perhaps there was.” He tries Connor’s tone this time, Connor’s patient, professional tone. “Do you know their name? I could inquire for you.” There’s a flicker of fury in Perkins’ eyes. He purposefully never gave him a name; equipment didn’t require a name beyond its make and model of course. “Elijah Kamksi is a secretive man. It is hard to know what he has and hasn’t done. If you can recall more details about that other RK900 unit, I could ask Connor to follow it up. He has worked closely with Elijah and Ms Chloe Kamski since the revolution.”

“Don’t think Allen mentioned a name.” There’s bitter loathing in his voice and he’s looking at him with that look, that same look he’s given ever since he was brought online in the CyberLife delivery van. “Strange coincidence, isn’t it? Rumours of another RK900 unit just over a month ago. You, starting your job here a month ago.”

“Strange coincidences indeed, sir.” He smiles a Connor smile; a disarming, friendly smile, as he tips his head slightly. “Shall I inquire about this other RK900 unit with my father at the DPD? If you suspect foul play he would be the right person to ask. He is a Lieutenant after all, and head of the Android Crimes Division. Perhaps you know him, sir? His name is Hank Anderson.”

The man presses his mouth into a tight line, brows furrowed deeply with anger before he pivots and strides out of the room without a further word. He slams the door shut behind him, and Freddie’s knees buckle, legs giving out beneath him. He’s no longer in the breakroom, he’s back in the armoury, shut up and locked away again after a mission; just another weapon, just another piece of equipment. Scrambling, he backs himself into a corner and curls up with his knees to his chest, burying his face and trying to calm himself down. He hopes he didn’t give anything away, he hopes he hadn’t slipped up, given Perkins the evidence he needs to whisk him away from his family and return him to the FBI. He feels himself unravelling, feels a thread being pulled as he falls apart under the deluge of suppressed memories he’d tried so very hard to lock away. A room with no sky. An android with no name. 

WARNING

91% Level of Stress

Freddie clutches his head, fumbling through his recent memories, trying to grasp the good ones, the happy ones, the ones filled with joy. They slip through his fingers, and he drowns in the dark ocean of his trauma. He wants to go home, he wants to hug Sumo, he wants to be hugged by his father, by his brother. He wants Caleb to call him so he can hear his voice, hear him tell him he’s glad for the chat. He doesn’t want this, he’s so tired of crying, he’s had more than enough of this darkness.

“Freddie-!” The door opens and he’s engulfed in a tight embrace, an achingly familiar tight embrace. Connor squeezes him close and he clings to him desperately as if to anchor himself from drowning. 

“God I thought we passed Perkins in the lobby.” Hank grumbles, crouching down to reach out and tousle his hair. “He looked furious, which means you did good, kid.”

“What are you doing here?” Freddie peeks at him from over Connor’s shoulder, still reluctant to loosen his grip on his brother’s jacket. 

“Got booted from the crime scene now FBI’s taken over.” Their father scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Connor suggested we drop by with an afternoon treat.” 

“We have those new butterscotch Teariums in the car.” Connor leans back just far enough so their eyes can meet. “We’re headed back to the precinct and it should tie up with Caleb coming back from his recent mission.”

“Oh, um, I have-”

“Already cleared it.” Hank holds up his hand to interrupt him. “Like we said, FBI’s taken over so your cadaver’s being transferred to _their_ forensics lab.” 

“Dr Olive has cleared you for an hour long break.” Connor smiles and Freddie feels himself smile in return. Leaning back into the cuddle, he buries his face in the crook of his brother’s shoulder, feeling his stress levels plummet until they sit comfortably at zero again.

“Come on boys.” Hank groans as he stands back up. “My knees are killing me.”

Freddie laughs, wiping the last of his tears away. “Coming, dad.” 


	3. Infection

For all his quick reflexes and heightened senses, there’s still no accounting for human error. The pen hastily slapped onto the table begins to roll towards the end of it, so Freddie darts over to catch it just as Isaac crouches to lift up the heavy crate of equipment. Crate meets jaw. Audible crack upon impact. Damage to top and bottom left second and third molars. 

“Oh shit Arlo!” Isaac cries, the shift in attention causing him to drop the crate in order to reach out in concern. Freddie grabs the crate before it hits the floor with a crash, straightening slowly to place it on the workbench. 

“I am alright.” He reassures the panicked human, who gives him a look of disbelief.

“Buddy I _heard_ that sound.”

“Impact damage to my left molars.” He concedes, cupping his jaw. “But nothing more than fractures. My self-repair program should take care of it within an hour.”

Isaac looks at him warily and the concern is warranted; he’s only just beginning to associate physical pain with negativity after having spent the past eight months prior to his rescue being treated as a piece of equipment by Special Agent Perkins. 

“And if it doesn’t, I’m taking you to First Aid, got it?” Isaac huffs, fixing him with a stern glare. He nods obediently.

“Got it.”

It heals within an hour. Mostly. There is one fracture, the deepest one, on his bottom left second molar yet to seal completely but it’s making progress. He says as much, reporting to Isaac who concedes with a sigh that alright, yes, that sounds fine and no he won’t drag him to the First Aid room. Dr Olive calls him to the morgue because there’s a new cadaver brought in from the Red Ice lab case and Freddie knows there will be quite a lot of chemicals to process. Connor had already warned him with a quick message stating there had been several shots exchanged and a lot of the lab had been damaged, sending chemicals spilling onto the floor and contaminating the newly deceased. No matter. He is an RK900 and his toxicology abilities are far superior than any android created before him, even Connor. 

Dr Olive waits for him to put on his full length vinyl apron and gloves, and he forgoes the surgical mask given he has no saliva to spit, and must have quick access to his mouth. She begins the Y incision and he touches the smudge of dried liquid on the victim’s forehead. Cause of death is extremely clear, but what isn’t clear are the concoction of chemicals spilled on site. It didn’t seem to match those usually found at Red Ice labs, so the lab seemed to be cooking up something else on the side, coupled with the fact all the deceased have needle marks on the inside of their elbows which is at odds with the usual method of Red Ice inhalation. Freddie swipes what residue he can on the tip of his tongue.

>sample insufficient 

“Anything?”

“Insufficient. The liquid has dried and the residue left behind is not enough to provide clear chemical analysis.” Freddie frowns. “We will need to see if there’s more on other parts of the body.”

“Or more on other bodies.” She quips. “Not the only one we’ve got to do today. Your father's sending in at least three others.”

“The track marks are inconsistent with the consumption of Red Ice.” Freddie points out, turning the victim’s arm to reveal the crook of their elbow. “It is possible they were working on something else, a new drug that uses Thirium 310.” 

“How much blood do you need?”

“Not much.” Freddie dips his index and middle finger into the body, smearing what blood he can onto his tongue. 

“We’ll still need to spin it up to make it official.” She reminds him, and he frowns as his HUD fills with new information. “What have you found?”

“Nothing good. Nothing I can confirm until I’ve checked the others.”

In the end, when they forward the findings to the DPD after analysing four bodies and multiple tubes of various chemicals sampled from the site, Freddie knows the arrests made today, the destruction of the lab, has been done in the nick of time; they were in the midst of creating a new drug, a stronger one with highly addictive properties. 

“Good job, Frederick.” She commends with a smile as they bin their gloves. “Lab will process everything for the secondary round of tests to make it official, but from what you say, DPD nipped this one in the bud.”

He attempts to smile in reply, wincing as a sharp burst of pain resonates from his bottom left jaw.

“What happened?” She demands, hand immediately on his shoulder.

“Oh um, it’s alright I- I um, knocked my jaw on some equipment.” He stammers, fidgeting under her intense, matronly gaze. “Very minor fractures on some of my molars but they’ve mostly healed. This last one just needs a bit more time I think.”

“Well we’re all done here, so I’m sending you home to get that checked out.” She declares and any thought of protesting shrivels up when he sees her stern expression.

“Yes, doctor.” 

“Good. Now out of your uniform and call a cab to Jericho.”

He doesn’t go to Jericho. It cannot be that bad, surely, and so he takes a cab home instead. His molar just needs time to heal and now he has no more lab work, his system can focus on self-repairing the tooth. Unlocking the door, he crouches immediately and welcomes the Saint Bernard as Sumo lumbers over enthusiastically and mushes his face into Freddie’s middle. After making sure he had fresh water and had been let out to pee, Freddie set about searching the fridge for a bottle of cherry cola Tearium. Where Connor prefers hot Teariums, and Caleb the alcoholic ones, Freddie much prefers the chilled, carbonated ones. Hank always buys a pack during the fortnightly grocery run, and keeps a couple in the fridge ready for consumption.

Settling on the couch with Sumo, Freddie blinks the television on and resumes the documentary on space exploration he’d started the other night. The cherry cola is sweet, and the carbonated liquid fizzes on his tongue. A moment later, his entire left jaw and cheek explodes with pain and he nearly drops the bottle, clumsily pawing to set it down on the coffee table before cupping the side of his face. Sumo whines in concern and he squeezes his eyes shut as the pain rolls in waves, a strong throbbing, piercing ache drilling right into his jaw.

The door clicks open and even through the pain, Freddie knows his dad and brother won’t be home for at least another hour. He looks up just in time to meet the surprised gaze of his twin, Caleb, who immediately sets down the small bag in his hands onto the console table in favour of closing the distance between them.

“Freddie you ok?” His brother rushes to his side, and Freddie shakes his head rapidly. “Show me?” Caleb offers his hand, retracting the skin. It takes a considerable amount of effort for Freddie to do the same, having to fight through and sweep aside the pain in order to execute such a basic command. He grasps his brother’s hand and shows him his recent memories and spills over the question of ‘what are you doing here’ through the link because he doesn’t think he can manage speech quite yet.

“Oh, I thought I’d drop by and surprise you all with some drinks. Our mission wrapped up quicker than we thought and David’s got some boring admin meeting.” His twin shrugs, still distracted by his pain. “I think your tooth is infected? All the chemicals you processed today probably hindered your self disinfecting cycle and prevented a proper repair.”

He whines in frustration and Caleb laughs, looping his other arm around him and drawing him close into a hug. 

“We should probably get you to Jericho.” A pause. “Or, I mean. Maybe I could take the tooth out? Dad’s got a toolbox in the garage. I’ll sanitise the pliers. Your whole jaw will need to be detached temporarily so I can inspect it for infection and then we can ask Fabrications to print you another tooth.”

He doesn’t want to go to Jericho, and it must be plain on his face too because Caleb nods with a determined sigh. “Alright. Pliers it is.”

Long day. Long shitty day, but apparently some good came out of it: they stopped the production of some new drug being released onto the streets. Hank yawns, stretching languidly and standing aside so Connor can unlock the door. He’s not sure if Freddie is home yet- the boy keeps odd hours depending on what lab work is needed. So he expects one android, and won’t be disappointed if there isn’t one but instead he walks in and there are two androids.

“Caleb?” The other RK900 is holding a pair of pliers in one hand which he quickly and quite comically hides behind his back.

“Uhh hi dad.”

“...Do I want to know?” His eyes flick over to Freddie who is, for lack of a better word, _sulking_ with the couch throw wrapped tightly around his shoulders and Sumo sprawled on his lap. He’s cupping his cheek, rubbing it as if he has a toothache. Can androids even _have_ toothaches? 

“...Do you think the tooth fairy will come, even for android teeth?” Caleb asks sheepishly, slowly bringing the pliers from behind his back to show Hank the single tooth in its grasp. “Freddie had an accident at work today.”

“That’s nearly split in half.” Connor frowns, reaching for the tooth and plucking it free from the pliers so he can inspect it. “But given its position in your jaw, how come your self-repair capabilities did not seal it together?”

“Because he was working _your_ case.” Caleb reminds him. “Mouth full of chemicals.”

“And a cherry cola.” Hank nods in the direction of the bottle on the coffee table. “That oughta do it.” Freddie whines, rubbing his cheek again and Hank chuckles, tousling his hair fondly. “What’s the android equivalent of ibuprofen?”

“Nothing.” Connor shakes his head. “We could disable your sensors for a little while though, Freddie, until the infection site heals up?”

The younger RK900 hesitates for a moment, eyes darting to Hank’s as though seeking reassurance. “Go for it, kid. Don’t want you to suffer through the night.” With his blessing, Caleb touches Freddie’s LED and after a moment, the twin’s face relaxes, no longer pinched up in pain. Hank sighs, the tension unwinding from his shoulders. Surely now he can have a perfectly ordinary, lazy evening with the boys?

He has his own room, but most nights he spends in Connor’s instead. Last night had been no different, and something about the dull ache in his jaw and having a part of him missing exacerbated his fear of being locked away alone in the dark again. It felt a little too much like being locked in the armoury, left to repair himself and clean the gear and guns of the FBI SWAT team. He feels safest when he’s with a family member, and most nights it’s Connor. His brother tells him each time it happens that he doesn’t mind at all, and Freddie knows this to be true and revels in it. Connor makes him feel safe and wanted and cared for. Connor would never lock him up in the dark and expect him to clean anything. 

They rise at the same time, Connor pausing to lean over and bump his nose against his fondly before they start getting ready for the day. Freddie heads back to his room and notes the pillow has been disturbed despite him not using his room last night. Curiously, he rounds the side of the bed and lifts up the pillow to reveal a dollar coin. Picking it up, he turns it over in his hand and smiles brightly, taking a photo to send to Caleb. His twin replies a second later.

[ _Tooth fairy doesn’t discriminate!_ ]


	4. Wound Reveal + Ignoring an Injury

It’s a full Anderson house. Well, it will be in about ten minutes or so. And ‘house’ isn’t quite right, given they aren’t indoors and even if they _were_ it’s certainly _not_ a house, but that’s how the saying goes so he’ll say it. It’s a joint task force between the DPD Android Crimes Division, so that’s Dad Anderson and Big Bro Anderson onsite, and SWAT Unit 32 so _he’s_ onsite, Middle Bro Anderson, and now the mission is wrapping up, CSI will be onsite soon, so that’s Baby Bro Anderson. Four Andersons. They’re just missing Dog Anderson.

“Where the fuck are they, it’s so fuckin’ cold I want to go home and pass out on my bed.” Detective Reed grumbles. Ah yes. There've been killings involving both androids and humans, so DPD Homicide squad are here meaning Detective Gavin Reed is here and Caleb’s patience is wearing thinner by the second.

“Icy conditions are making it hard for CSI to navigate their vans safely.” He informs him because if he doesn’t the man will continue complaining and he may outright murder him. “High body count means they need to bring multiple vehicles.”

“And all their fancy tech, right?” Reed groans. “God we’ll be here all night.”

“No fancy tech.” Caleb shrugs. “Just one RK900.”

“You’re here already.” He gestures vaguely at him. “Why don’t you go put that mouth of yours to use and save us some time?”

Rayner looks about ready to leap at Reed on his behalf which is touching, and of course their Captain is within earshot, a crease marring that handsome brow. Not to worry. Humans have instincts, have automatic reactions to certain situations. Like being handed something out of the blue. 

“Sure. Here, hold this for a second?” Human vs 200lbs custom EMP resistant ballistics shield. Gavin meets ground. Rayner snortlaughs and their unwavering Captain, his captain o captain, wavers just a _smidge_ , the corners of his mouth twitching up briefly.

“Oh, sorry Detective Reed.” Caleb reaches down to grab the shield, human still attached by way of instinctual pincer grasp, and returns both into an upright position. “Anyway though I too am an RK900, I do not have the proper qualifications to perform forensic investigations at crime scenes even if they are raids. Rest assured dear Frederick will get to work as soon as he arrives.” 

“You little shit!” The human shrieks, voice an octave higher in outrage and Caleb steps away from him in favour of crossing the distance and nudging Connor with his elbow playfully.

“Hey.”

“I see you’ve had enough of Detective Reed for tonight.” Connor quips sagely and Caleb shrugs. 

“Can’t believe you put up with him for so long.”

“Not by choice. Can’t exactly murder a fellow detective and keep my job at the same time.” Connor grins, and he laughs at the cheeky expression on his brother’s face. “It’s not so bad now we’re in different divisions. We overlap sometimes, but not all the time so the urge to murder is lesser now.” 

“What do you make of all this?” Changing the subject, he tips his head in the direction of the semi-finished apartment complex, the base of operations for an elaborate crime syndicate that saw both android and human lives cut down for the sake of seizing power in the black market organ trade. The raid had been a dangerous one, and though they didn’t suffer any casualties, a third of the team took severe hits and will need weeks of recovery time. The very nature of the building meant they couldn’t ambush them and having the separate floors meant the element of surprise was lost. 

“I think our baby brother has a lot of work ahead of him.” Connor smirks before shaking his head, sighing tiredly. “As do Hank and I. There’s a lot of criminals to question. Reed’s team will handle the human criminals and his interrogation tactic is-”

“Bad, _barely_ competent cop with anger management issues?” 

“-sorely lacking in finesse, but we’ll go with that.” Connor looks him over, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of grime from his cheek. “At least you get to go home soon.”

“Soon-ish.” Caleb corrects, making a face. “Waiting for the last party to secure their floor before the Captain can declare the entire site is secure.” 

“Still, you’ll be out of here long before dad and I can leave. And poor Freddie will be here long after _we_ leave.”

“Gotta have an Anderson onsite.” Caleb laughs, leaning in to bump his brow against his brother’s fondly. “Okay. I better get going. I’ll see you on Saturday at our place?”

“I’ll bring the drinks.” Connor vows, waving as his brother takes his leave.

Watching Caleb return to his team, Connor idly watches their group dynamic and marvels at how his brother is the furthest thing from the cold, unfeeling killing machine CyberLife intended to release for the sole purpose of crushing the deviant revolution. They didn’t count on the revolution succeeding. They didn’t count on having their arm twisted by the Kamskis, nor the mounting pressure placed on them by the public after public opinion soared in favour of the deviants given Joss Douglas’ live coverage of the Jericho Four’s final stand. Which meant they offered the RK900 to the DPD as an olive branch, smiling through gritted teeth as Connor deviated him on the spot and it wasn’t a killing machine being activated, it was a young brother who would become Caleb Anderson not long after. 

It was a far harder road for their youngest brother, Caleb’s twin, Freddie. Over eight months, while Caleb had his family, had his team, had a growing relationship, Freddie had been treated as a piece of equipment by Special Agent Richard Perkins and his FBI SWAT team. He’s only now just coming into his own, finding his place in the Forensics team and settling into the Anderson family. 

The CSI vans begin to pull up to the scene and soon the last Anderson brother is onsite. Freddie gives him a small wave and Connor finds himself smiling as he waves in return.

“Hello Connor.”

“Hello Freddie.” He greets, smile growing warmer as the other RK900 offers a grin he most certainly learned from Caleb. “You’re going to be very busy tonight unfortunately.”

“That’s alright. It is my job and I like doing it.” His brother reassures, eyes roving over the SWAT team at the entrance of the building. Caleb spots them and waves enthusiastically, and Connor laughs as Freddie returns it with the same enthusiasm. “The site has been declared secure, so they’ll be heading back to the station.” He relays what must be the short conversation they just shared. “And that means it is time for me to start working.”

“And time for dad and I to start processing criminals.” He sighs heavily. “Well Freddie, I’ll see you back at home. Hopefully sooner rather than later.” He adds, looping an arm around his brother’s waist and pulling him in for a quick hug.

“Okay Connor.” Freddie mumbles into his shoulder. “Say hello to dad for me?”

“Of course.”

It is a drastic change to go from the team storming the site to the team that arrives well after the action is over. He much prefers the latter to the former. He’s grown accustomed to the stillness, to the attention to detail this job requires rather than the chaos of raids, the incessant hail of bullets under Special Agent Perkins’ leadership. Or lack thereof. Caleb’s memories showed Captain Allen prefers a vastly, drastically different mode of leadership that sees him guiding a tight-knit team and playing to both individual and collective strengths.

Special Agent Perkins barely remembered the names of his own Agents, let alone cared enough to give Freddie one. It’s something he’s had to learn from his brothers; what transpired at his time with the FBI was not normal, it was _cruel_. His cruelty still lingers like bruises on human skin that take much longer to fade than for the injury to heal. But Freddie is learning, and though he has a long way to go at least he has family now and he has the Anderson name and he has the name Frederick which he chose all by himself. 

The semi-finished apartment complex is the site of a massacre. Even before the raid, it seems the syndicate were trying to cut their losses and decided it was much easier to kill the workers, and thus prevent them from being questioned by the police. Even before the raid, even before the execution of the workers, the complex was already filled with bodies upon bodies; missing humans and missing androids, kidnapped and killed, then harvested for organs or biocomponents. Even if Freddie weren’t an RK900, he’d still be able to smell the dizzying scent of human blood, of android thirium, and of hospital grade disinfectants. 

There’s too many bodies to be housed at the lab morgue so many will have to be diverted to the hospital morgues until they can process them. There’s no mystery to be solved here; it’s very clear how these victims died. The task at hand is processing each and every one so they can be identified and released for their kin to claim. Freddie works at a steady pace, his superior commanding him to start at the top floor and work downwards. Most of the cleanup will need to be concentrated in the basement level where the workers were executed, but on the other hand the team will not need his input since the deaths are straightforward. The greatest task will be in trying to identify the parts and matching them to the bodies, ensuring the families will be able to claim their loved ones as whole as possible, and failing that, he will try his best to ensure there’s at least a name, a serial number, so they may be buried with or installed into memorial walls with dignity. 

He takes the elevator and several body bags, and begins the task of retrieving corpses. Police auxiliary units patrol the now quiet floors when not too long ago SWAT Unit 32 would’ve been sweeping through. Arrests have been made, but the ratio of arrests vs corpses is highly skewed. No matter. He has faith in his brothers, in his father, and yes perhaps even Detective Reed. 

The thing about android corpses versus human corpses is that it’s very easy to determine whether a human is dead or alive. For androids, there’s a certain nuance to determining whether an android is still active or deactivated. And the thing is, humans are still learning how to determine between those two. The android in question, splayed in a broken sprawl, riddled with bullets, is not actually deactivated. Freddie learns as such, when he is crouched beside the human corpse adjacent to it, because the android sputters to life and the knife in its hand plunges right into his leg. His RK900 programming kicks in and he whirls around, grabbing the android’s wrist and using his other hand to yank the knife from his thigh. Too late does he see the gun in its other hand and it fires at his chest, narrowly missing both his hearts. Tossing the knife aside, he grabs the gun before the android can fire again, twisting so he breaks both wrists before thrusting a hand forward to yank the android’s pump regulator out. They collapse like a cut puppet, jerking and seizing for a few moments before falling still and now Freddie knows they are truly dead.

Police units rush into the room and he reassures them all is well, the android is properly deactivated. He has the pump regulator of the android to prove it. Swatting away the damage notifications to his thigh and chest, he continues with the long, laborious task of finding, bagging and logging each corpse. The thirium loss is steady but not fatal, so he keeps his head down and continues working. He has completed missions in far worse conditions, and his brothers and father have both worked so very hard tonight that he feels he cannot let them down by allowing such pathetic injuries to hinder him. He is an RK900. In the FBI SWAT unit he was to keep going until he physically shut down, and he reasons that the same level of dedication is required of him here too. It is only fair, to give as much as they expect and he is far from shutting down over such trivial hindrances. 

It is nearing midnight by the time everything is loaded up and ready to head back to the lab, and he can sense the immense fatigue laying heavy like a blanket over his human colleagues. There is still so much work to do.

“No.” Lenore says firmly, and he tips his head slightly in confusion. “You’re going to say ‘I can get a head start on these while you all go home to rest’ and the answer is no, Freddie, you absolutely are not going to do that.”

“But I-” 

“ _No_.” She repeats, firmer still. “We’re going to run the stuff that needs hours to process, you’re going to just put ID tags on the bodies and then everything goes into the freezers for tomorrow.”

There’s no room for argument, even if he does think he can accomplish much more but it would require him to stay there by himself and they never seem to want to allow him to do that. He is both grateful and confused. “...Understood.”

“Good.” 

By the time Dr Olive declares everything is now at the mercy of the lab equipment and can wait until later, it is nearly two in the morning. Which is fine, since Freddie changed out of his damaged uniform upon arrival and applied dermal nano patches to cover the wounds to stem the bleeding. It could wait until he got home and had access to the first aid kit in the bathroom, since he was needed here at the lab to do actual work and not waste time tinkering on such small matters. He hangs up his lab coat, thumb brushing over the embroidered ‘Dr. F. Anderson’ and finding himself smiling, as he does each time, because that is his name and it’s all his and no one else’s.

The lights are out, as expected, their father having gone to bed long ago but Connor is waiting there on the couch. He smiles brightly, standing and crossing the distance to envelope him in a hug. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you until much later, actually.” Connor admits, and Freddie clings for a moment longer because it is a luxury he can afford.

“We processed what we could and are letting the machines run some tests until we come back later. The humans need their rest.”

“They do indeed.” His brother laughs. “Do you want to continue watching the space documentary we started?”

“Yes please.” Freddie nods. “Let me just change into pyjamas.”

He goes to the bathroom, pyjamas draped over one arm which he neatly hangs on the towel rack while he fetches the first aid kit. The nano patches have kept the bleeding at bay though he now has some mild internal bleeding since the blood had nowhere else to go. Negligible. He props his foot up on the bathtub so he can properly assess his thigh, peeling away the patch and beginning to gently ease the damaged wires together again at their rightful place. He’s just about done when Connor appears in the doorway.

“Freddie?”

“Oh, pardon me, I didn’t realise I was taking so long. I will not be much longer, though you can start without me and I can catch up.” He smiles reassuringly, but Connor only looks at him in distress.

“You’re _hurt_ , how did this happen?” Connor comes to his side, peering at the wound before his eyes widen as he spots the larger one on his chest. “You were _shot_?”

“One of the androids was not actually deceased and managed to injure me before I deactivated him properly.” He holds out his hand to share the memory, and Connor’s distress only increases.

“Freddie why didn’t you tell anyone?” There’s something desperate in his tone, and he really doesn’t like it. It makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

“I-I was, and still am fully functioning. It was not impor-”

“Of course it was! Of course it is! Anytime you’re hurt, it’s important!” Connor’s LED spins red and Freddie steps back, feeling his own stress levels rise. He’s done something wrong, he has, and it’s made Connor upset. “Freddie- Freddie, no, don’t- I’m not- I’m not _angry_ with you, I’m just- you’re important, you know this, right? You’re important to me. To Caleb. To dad. To your whole forensics team who care so very much about you. When you’re hurt, that’s bad. That’s- that’s not something you brush aside until you’re alone. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

His brother is upset and he thinks he understands now, and it’s because he loves him in a way no one at the FBI loved him, and when he’s hurt it upsets Connor because Connor doesn’t want him to be hurt. It’s a revelation to him, and it must show on his face because Connor draws him close and hugs him again, mindful of the chest wound as he presses closely. 

“Okay, Connor.” He murmurs into his brother’s shoulder, nuzzling the soft fabric. “I’ll ask for help next time it happens.” 

Connor inspects his chest wound, LED still red as he shakes his head. “We can’t repair this one, not even together. It would require-”

“I’ve repaired gunshot wounds by myself before.” Freddie blinks, tipping his head slightly. “I was only repaired by the technician if I lost consciousness from multiple injuries.”

He’s done it again. He’s said something wrong, only now he recognises it’s not wrong so much as distressing because it’s something bad, and he has lived his life believing bad things were normal things and is now trying to unlearn such beliefs. 

“I can do it,” Freddie says slowly, “but I would appreciate it very much if you could help me, please? I can instruct you how. It will be easier with someone helping me.”

It is easier, and faster too, to have someone helping with the repair process. Everything has been set back in its right place, and his self-repair program will kick in and mend the rest. He drinks two full bottles of thirium to replace his bloodloss and by then it doesn’t seem like Connor is interested in watching the documentary at all. He is staring anxiously at the door, and Freddie doesn’t know why because it is nearing three in the morning now and no one else should be coming. But someone does come, in fact, because the door is unlocked by the only other person who should have a key and there’s Caleb with a worried look on his face, and Freddie realises Connor must have been talking to him the whole time, keeping him updated with what was happening.

“They said the top floor was clear.” Caleb looks pained. “They said it was clear. That’s why David said the site was secure.”

“Your colleagues who cleared the floor are human.” Freddie points out, as Caleb rushes to him and gathers him up into a tight hug. “They did not realise one of the androids was still active.”

“That’s on us, Freddie.”

“It’s _not_.” He says, trying to be as stern as possible. “And it’s fine. I handled it.”

“You didn’t, you just kept going until you got home and tried to fix everything yourself!” Caleb is scolding him, but he’s doing it in his Caleb way where his voice is mad but his eyes are worried. Freddie feels a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with his injury.

“I’m trying to learn that when things hurt, I need to ask for help.” He confesses quietly. “I wasn’t allowed to ask for help back then. I either fixed it myself, or I had to be incapacitated, before I was given help.”

“I’ll kill him.” Caleb vows, slight static in his voice as he holds him close. “I’ll do it slowly, so he suffers.”

“Just…” Freddie presses his lips into a tight line, trying to find the right words. “Just help me learn how to undo all he did, please?”

“Of course.” His twin presses a kiss to his temple and finally he feels his stress levels begin to drop. “Of course we will, Freddie.”

Hank’s not sure if Freddie even came home last night, what with the huge mess forensics were left with after they went back to the station to start processing all the arrests. He expects to see Connor pottering around, making tearium for himself and a coffee for him. Kitchen is empty at this hour. Huh. Curiously padding into the living room he finds that empty too, and so he wanders back down the hallway and to Connor’s room. The door is slightly ajar, most likely left open for Sumo. He finds not one, not two, but three androids still fast asleep, with the Saint Bernard sprawled at the end of the bed.

Leaning against the doorway, Hank just watches them for a few moments, heart squeezing at the sight of Freddie in the middle bracketed by his brothers who each have an arm tucked around him protectively. Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he snaps a quick photo and quietly retreats back to the kitchen. No harm in letting them sleep in a little longer, they all could use the extra rest.

**Author's Note:**

> [CRUCIAL gif of a blessed Freddie Smile!](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/750888203430527018/760716805613289512/image0.gif)   
>  [I'm still on this hellsite](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com)   
> 


End file.
